Follow My Lead (8 page)

“And may I see these letters?” Lord Forrester frowned, finally tearing his eyes away from the Adam and Eve.

“I . . . I do not have them,” Winn had to admit.

“Of course you don’t,” George replied. “Lord Forrester, you cannot be seriously entertaining this notion that this painting is a fake . . . And that of all the people in all the world, she’s the only one to have discovered it!”

“I don’t believe it a fake—I believe it mislabeled. And I’m not the only one,” Winn countered, glancing to George. “The letters exist. But they are in Basel, Switzerland. Where Dürer was living and studying at the time of this painting.” She took another deep breath. “I would have to retrieve them.”

That sent a ripple throughout the room and out into the hall. A woman—granted, one well of age—taking on such a task, such a journey, simply to prove a point . . . well, it was ridiculous! Preposterous!

“Your Grace?” Lord Forrester looked to Jason Cummings, lounging against the windowsill. “What are your feelings on the matter?”

Every eye in the room turned to the young Duke. In her desire to put forth her proposal, Winn had somehow forgotten he was there. But now . . . he looked casual, unaffected. But she could tell he had been listening the whole time.

“Well,” he drawled, rubbing his chin lazily, “either she is absolutely right, or this is the most complicated lover’s quarrel I’ve ever been witness to.”

The room and those beyond sent up a huge guffaw of laughter, and Winn felt her face go up in flames. A lover’s quarrel indeed! Over the past year, she had moved about as far away from loving her cousin as a human could manage. But she could not help but sneak a glance at George. His face had reddened as well, but he could not help but show a modicum of relief with it.

“But,” the young Duke continued (annoyingly referring to her as if she was not in the room), “she does not ask for the Historical Society to fund her travels or research. Nor does she ask even for admittance to the Society. In fact, the only thing she does ask is for acknowledgement should she succeed. And if she fails . . .” He peered at her then, his dark eyes such a devilish contrast to his bright red hair that in the right light—and of course, if one was not acquainted with him personally—Lord Jason Cummings could be mistaken for Lucifer himself. “If she fails, it’s no skin off my nose.” He looked to Lord Forrester. “Nor yours. I see no reason
not
to entertain this notion.”

And those were the words that had gained Miss Winnifred Crane her bargain with Lord Forrester. And brought her here, to Totty’s home, where George ranted and raved without any hope of denting her joy.

Joy. Excitement. It was bubbling to the surface, threatening to burst forth in a series of adolescent giggles as she worked the knot of her cloak free and handed it to the waiting butler.

“Thank you, Leighton,” she murmured, accidentally giving him the most winning smile, such that the unflappable man blinked twice before blushing.

“Winn, darling, you’ve made Leighton go all red,” Arabella Arbuthnot Tottendale, affectionately known as Totty, said as she descended the stairs. “And George. Dare I hope your excursion went well?”

“It did not, Totty,” George spoke up as he tried to shrug his oversized shoulders out of his coat. “You will not believe the tangle Winnifred has
willingly
—” But he was interrupted by Totty sweeping past with an upraised hand.

“I can tell already this conversation cannot be had in a foyer—it has an appalling lack of sherry.”

Winn caught Leighton deftly rolling his eyes. And the downstairs rumor that Totty had an eye hidden underneath her lace cap must have had some merit, because even though her back was to him, she called out, “Leighton, is there something wrong with your vision?”

Leighton, for his part, had recovered his unflappability and swiftly answered, “No, ma’am.”

“Good to hear. I should hate to have to put you in spectacles. Ghastly indulgence for a butler. Oh, and keep Mr. Bambridge’s coat handy; he’ll have to leave shortly enough if he’s to dress and attend the theatre with us this evening.”

And with that, Totty crossed into the cozy sitting room, poured herself a liberal glass of sherry, and ensconced herself by the fire. Winnifred and George could do nothing but follow.

“I still don’t see why I must bear the expense and put up at a hotel,” George grumbled. “There’s room enough for me here, and you yourself have told me time and again that your childhood friendship with
both
our mothers extended to her offspring.”

Winn caught Totty’s eye and shrugged. But the older lady simply winked back at her. Before Totty was a Tottendale, she was just a girl, growing up in a practical and boring village in the south, where luckily, the only thing to defy practicality and boredom could be found just next door: Clara and Margaret. A pair of cousins who were raised practically as sisters. Totty ran wild with them, until their wildness ran out and everyone involved had to become a young lady. A trying loss, but their friendship bore it, and when they were married and had children, gifts and letters were exchanged, visits and holidays spent in each other’s company. And when grief came, when Totty lost her son and husband, or Winn her mother Clara, it was shared, and thus eased. And when Winn finally plucked up the courage to leave Oxford and come to London and try her fate, Totty immediately offered to act as chaperone, guide, and friend. And Winn could not be more grateful.

Especially when it came to George.

“Because you have told me time and again that your intentions toward Winn are more than cousinly.” She sent a soft look of inquiry to Winn, the same one she offered whenever the subject of her and George’s relationship was discussed. Winn dodged it, much as she had all the times before. “And,” Totty continued, “while I may not be strictly concerned with appearances in general, both your mothers would rise from the grave and murder me if they thought I had damaged your reputations. So considering I doubt there is sherry in hell, which is, quite frankly, where I know I’m headed, I’ll keep myself comfortable here on earth as long as possible. Besides”—she sent George a look of sympathy—“this is a
ladies’
house. You bump your head on the door frames once a day as is.”

It was true, even George would have to admit that. The little house on Bloomsbury Street was everything that was comfortable, stylish, and chic. If you were a single gentlewoman. And Totty had purchased it two years ago for just that reason. She’d told Winn in a letter at the time that it was because while living with Phillippa Worth, she’d discovered “the bigger the house, the fewer options you have in keeping out disagreeable company. At the rate Phillippa involves herself in charitable functions,” she wrote, “it is only a matter of time before a sewing circle or some such odious thing takes over a wing and never leaves.” So now, Totty had her little house, with its little garden and little stairs, and little door frames that George’s gargantuan size simply could not avoid. Now, she could sit by her fire and ignore invitations to charity teas or the theatre if she felt like staying in . . .

“Totty,” Winn asked suddenly, “what prompted the desire to go to the theatre this evening? I thought you hated boring lovesick swains pouring their hearts out from the shrubbery.”

“Yes, and I have a rather thin tolerance for the plays as well.” Totty smiled at her own joke. “But the short answer is you, my dear. I received a note not five minutes before you got home, from Phillippa Worth, saying that we simply had to attend her box this evening—she
had
to be the first person to host
the
Winnifred Crane.”

As Winnifred went white and George practically purple, Totty could only purr, “Like I said, dare I assume your excursion went well?”

“It . . . might not have gone exactly as planned,” Winn began cautiously.

“You knew about this the whole time, didn’t you?” George accused Totty. “You knew she was going to march into the Historical Society and destroy her good name with this joke . . .”

“Now, now, George,” Totty soothed, patting his hand in the politest, yet most dismissive manner possible. “I knew only that Winn had an appointment this afternoon, one you were not meant to tag along to—yet somehow you managed to lose me just as we were sitting down to the luncheon Leighton took whole minutes to prepare, and followed her. But I am very curious to find out what did happen.”

And so, Winn laid the story out for her. From the authorship of the papers by C. W. Marks to having her father’s letter of introduction drown in the fountain, to a Duke, of all people, playing her quiet yet effective champion, to seeing the Adam and Eve on the wall and her utter boldness to offer Lord Forrester a . . . wager of sorts.

“But it really isn’t a wager, as he loses nothing if I win and I lose nothing but face if I do not, but it seems I must plan a trip to the Continent posthaste,” she concluded. And then, the weight of the story hitting her, “Totty . . . do you think I might have a glass of sherry as well?”

“I’ll be damned if you are,” George growled like a wounded bear from his corner.

“Now, now,” Totty chided. “The girl is thirty years of age. I’m sure she can handle one small glass of sherry,” she said, pouring a rather liberally sized
small
glass for Winn.

“Not that!” George barked. “I’ll be damned if you think to travel all over the Continent.”

“You cannot stop me, George. As Totty said, I’m well past age. I have no need of guardianship.”

“I’ve never met anyone more in need of it!” he cried, practically laughing. “Before last week, you’d never been outside of Oxford—and barely outside of the libraries. It was ridiculously easy to follow you to Somerset House, simply because you had no idea how to get there. You think you can travel on your own to Basel, Switzerland?”

“Maybe, maybe not.” She narrowed her eyes. “But I have to try.”

“And how do you expect to fund this trip, Winnifred?” George countered. “Totty shouldn’t pay for it.”

“Can’t in any case—I’m a woman on a budget.” Totty lifted her glass of sherry to George.

“And you have no funds of your own,” he continued, coming to stand over her, looming—and due to his great advantage in height, and Winn’s seated position, George was a world-class loomer.

But Winn simply looked up and met his eye in a cold, hard stare. “And whose fault is that?” she accused.

George sucked in his breath and let it out in a great sigh. All the while holding Winn’s constant gaze.

“Heavens, if you two are going to talk about money again, I’m going to go scold Leighton for watering down this sherry,” Totty supplied, rising and drifting out of the room. Leaving Winn and George to stare daggers at each other.

“The only reason—” Winn began, breaking the silence.

“If your father—”

“The
only
reason I do not have my inheritance in place right now is you,” she finished.

“No, it’s not. If your father wanted you to have the paintings,” George argued, practically by rote, “he would have specified it in his will. He would have sourced the monies used to buy them.”

They had had this fight so often by now, Winnifred could almost predict what would be said next. She would argue that her father’s private collection of paintings was the result of lifelong dedication and the vast majority of his salary and earned funds. He specified in his will that his estate would go to his daughter—and his estate consisted of those paintings, a few trinkets, and little else. It wasn’t an extensive collection—and mostly by minor painters. But there was a Clara Peeters, a Frans Hals, a Jean Fouquet, and several others from the Dutch Golden Age and Northern Renaissance. And worth enough money that, if sold, Winnifred could live off it quite comfortably for the rest of her days . . . but that part she did not mention to George.

George would then argue that her father acquired those paintings under the guise of adding them to the University’s impressive collections and thus they belonged to the school.

Winn would counterattack, saying that if that were the case, why had no one kicked up a fuss about the few of his collection that were to willed to entities outside the school (such as the Adam and Eve to the Historical Society)?

George would throw up his hands and say that Winnifred understood nothing of academic politics.

Winnifred would then reply that she understood enough of academic politics to know George was only supporting the school’s claims (and indeed, likely instigating them) to further his own ambitions to fill her father’s vacant seat and be made a full professor—jumping over several more well-known and well-published dons. His appointment would be secured if he managed to have Alexander Crane’s personal collection added to the school’s. Leaving Winnifred penniless.

And then George would argue that her father never intended that she not be taken care of.

“Besides, your father knew you would be taken care of,” George said, heartfelt.

It seemed they were skipping directly to the end of the argument this time. Intelligent of him, she had to credit. “By me,” he continued. “By your husband.”

And there it was. The true root of the problem. Oxford professors, aside from the stature of being one, held certain other privileges that dons did not . . . one of them being the option to marry. And so, George needed to become a professor before they could marry, and he could only become a professor if he bargained away Winn’s inheritance. It made her feel used. One of the coins on a table in a card game. But more than that—more than the idea of being won or played for—the idea of marrying George . . . hell, the idea of marriage in and of itself . . .

Every time he brought up this topic, all Winn wanted to do was squirm away to a place where she could breathe . . . where she felt free.

“We’ve been intended for each other since you were fifteen,” George said softly.